


A Kindly Disposition

by AceQueenKing



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Dark, Empire Era, F/M, Naboo Culture, Naboo Customs, Padmé Amidala Lives, Planet Naboo (Star Wars), Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-28 20:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: His hand caresses her shoulder and he is satisfied to see her shiver.





	A Kindly Disposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adesecula](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Adesecula).



Padmé Amidala's lips tug into a slight frown as he drapes the necklace over her neck. Her black dress compliments the red ruby necklace he's bought her, milled from Naboo itself. It forms into the symbol of her ruling crescent; she traces the cold path of the rubies with one light finger, and he knows she sees it for the symbol it is.

"You look quite stunning, my dear," he says. His hand caresses her shoulder and he is satisfied to see her shiver.

"It feels ostentatious," she says. She is a bit unmoored, he can tell. Unsaid, but felt in the pout of her lips: _It is a lie, this Festival of Lights_. There is no democratic light in the Empire, a fact that makes him grin as much as it makes her frown.

That is his fault, truly; he had seen the girl held promise from her childhood, but he had not pulled her from her mother's breast until it was too late, and certain attitudes too long-rooted for him to pull up the weeds. He had thought her lack of ability in the force had made her a sub-par apprentice, but truthfully, he was not thinking broadly enough. He should have taken her from her mother's home long ago; Sith philosophy would have agreed with her, if only she'd devoted herself to it. There is nothing in Padmé Amidala's mind that is weak.

"Is not our newest Chancellor to be bedecked in such glory?" His own dark shirt glimmers with a golden thread; a subtle glamour, but he is beyond the need for pretending to be less than what he is now. He is the Emperor, and she all but his glorious second in command.

She frowns as she applies make-up of brightest carmine. "It feels so wrong to celebrate when so many lay dying," she says quietly. He drapes an arm around her and sees her frown, but she does not attempt to leave. She knows as well as he does that this is her life now: obsequious to his demand. She will, perhaps, in time, rebel, as any proper apprentice would, but he thinks she is smart enough to not through her life away for mere morality.

"I felt the same," he says, though he has felt no such thing. He does his best to make his mask look sorrowful at the thought of the gungans, blasted by the Trade Federation's last, spiteful stand in the end of the Clone Wars. "But tradition, too, is important, Amidala. It gives the people comfort in such...uncertain times. "

She frowns but nods, and he smiles, patting that shapely shoulder. "Shall I do your hair, darling Amidala?"

"My handmaidens..." She looks back and forth before remembering; it has taken him time, but slowly he's pulled each girl out of her orbit. Some married, some buried, some turned away from her with a mere plait from a silver tongue. "I...forgive me. I suppose you may."

She wipes a tear slowly out of the corner of her eye that she does not draw attention to, for she hates to highlight this weakness. He knows she thinks of her family and her Jedi, both long separated from her. He has taken no risks in her social life. Her prior life in meadows may as well be a bittersweet memory, for all he has planned of her.

The serpent in his breast longs to strike at her milk-white neck, but he restrains himself; time enough for that later. He fans out her hair and slowly knits in the long, intensive braids of their ancestors. For her ribbons, he chooses dark purple river-pearls - a suitable dark marroon cast that highlights her aristocratic coloring. The Festival of Lights was for Kings and Queens, long ago; in truth, the Empire is not so different from their glorious, violent past. 

"I was wondering," she says, trying to distract from her own discomfort at his tender touch. He may be a devil, but he is not without his own sympathies. "What you felt about Bail Organa's agricultural bill? Getting - "

"No business tonight," he says, not allowing her the one distraction he permits her. He picks up one of sixteen ornamental combs before carefully placing the black and gold one at a point of honor, holding spirals of maroon pearl-encrusted braids in place. "Have you thought of my proposal, Padmé?"

The familiar term makes her shiver, and perhaps not only that: his proposal has settled heavy on her shoulders, not unlike the fur coat he drapes her in.

"I have," she says, stiffly; he knows, as well as she knows, that she cannot refuse his proposal. The Naboo have always only had two modes: conquest or alliance. He has no desire to grind the girl under his heel, and she cannot hope to do so to him. So what better option than to marry him? Naboo so rarely has single kings or queens; surely it is right and just that they are Emperor and Empress.

It will allow them both to keep their friends close and their enemies closer. He grabs out a ceremonial dagger and holds it out to her; she knows better than to put it in his chest, but she grips it just a moment before putting it to her belt.

"Excellent," he says. "I will inform your father to begin preparations." He pulls on his own heavy coat; this will likely be his last appearance with the gear and sword combined. After this, he will need only the gear; there isn't a mind brilliant enough to oppose him, with her at his side.

"Do you have family, sir?" She asks, avoiding calling him by the title that is so distasteful to her; her cheeks are colored with the purest form of rouge: irritation. "You never speak of them."

"Not anymore," he says, irritated; unlike her, he has no love for his ancestors. And that is all Cosinga is to him. His voice must be hard, because she winces; good. This is a subject he will brook no further interest in.

"I'm sorry." She looks down and he can tell she wonders if perhaps she is wondering if she will ever see her family again. Of course she will — with proper supervision, of course. "It must be lonely."

He hesitates at the doorway, unsure of how to answer that. It has never been lonely, truthfully; he is not a person who knows such emotions. But he knows what such things mean to her, and sees the method to ensnare her further. "Well.." He says softly, an odd huff. "Perhaps we will fix that together."

She looks up, and the barest glint of hope lies in her eyes.

"Come," he says and holds out a hand. "Your people are ready for us."

" _Our_ people," she says carefully, and then she takes his hand.

He smiles as the snare clicks shut, and presses a kiss to her neck as she shivers, his lips hot against the cool metal.


End file.
